


Not a Shopgirl Either

by inkystake



Category: Stardust (2007)
Genre: Badass Women, Gender Roles, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 14:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkystake/pseuds/inkystake
Summary: “Now you’re being silly,” she retorted, albeit a little wistfully. “No one crosses the wall.” Then she did something she’d learned at her mother’s knee never to do in front of a man. She let a little bit of her true self out and grinned at Tristran. “Though I might have half a mind to do it myself.”





	Not a Shopgirl Either

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Victoria/Tristran BroTP.

“Tristran Thorn,” Humphrey’s educated drawl caused a tingle of pleasure through Victoria’s ears. “shop boy by day, peeping Tom by night. Is there no end to your charms?” She hid an amused smile as Tristran picked up a stick and pointed it at the tall blonde. Of course, with that extremely sloppy form, he was immediately disarmed. Victoria sighed inwardly. These were the men from whom she was expected to choose the husband she would spend the rest of her life with? An arrogant fop overly obsessed with his looks and a poor clerk whose prevailing trait was that he was mediocre at everything.

Her two friends, chosen not as much for their brains as they were daughters of her parent’s friends, tittered as Tristran was dumped onto his behind. “Humphrey,” she called down, “that’s enough.”

She watched in concern, surreptitiously of course as it wouldn’t do for her friends gossiping, as Tristran picked himself up and left. He was really the kindest boy in the village, despite his lack of discernible talent.

That was why, after being exasperated at his persistence when he came by a couple of days later, she found herself hooking an arm around his elbow and accompanying him to an admittedly sweet candle-light bedecked clearing. She was actually enjoying herself, until he earnestly drew himself up and declared. “For your hand in marriage, I would cross the wall and I’d bring you back that fallen star.”

For a second, she was tempted. The coldly glowing trail of stardust that had trailed its beautifully distant way across the heavens was only another reminder that she was stuck in Wall, fated to grow old and die there, her only accomplishments a marriage to a ‘proper’ man, a child or two raised right, and the distinction of being known once as the most beautiful girl for a hundred miles around.

But she herself knew that the world did not consist of only the hundred miles of farmstead that surrounded Wall, she’d been enamoured of maps in her younger days, dreaming of Indians and coolies and ships that could take a thousand men across an entire ocean.

“Now you’re being silly,” she retorted, albeit a little wistfully. “No one crosses the wall.” Then she did something she’d learned at her mother’s knee never to do in front of a man. She let a little bit of her true self out and grinned at Tristran. “Though I might have half a mind to do it myself.”

His face lit up and for a moment, the extraneous trappings of what they were stripped away, leaving an understanding between two people who knew the other was more than what they seemed. “It would be such an adventure.”

She had no doubts that Tristran was going to do exactly that, he was always a bit impulsive. But she was too, not that anybody ever knew. She blamed it on the champagne, her less than stealthy attempt to follow him to the wall. She wondered whether he was deliberately ignoring her or the liquor had dulled his hearing. She got close enough that when the old guard stuck his staff into Tristran’s belly she took the chance to fly by them both.

The old man yelled out in dismay, and Tristran stared for a moment before ‘accidentally’ tripping into the ninety-year old. “I’ll be looking for you, Tristran!” she cried over her shoulder. “If you bring me the star before my birthday, we can talk!” If I get it before then, you’ll help me leave this town forever. She heard someone yell her name before her ears were numbed by the pounding of her heart. She laughed as the forest sped by her. She had done it. She was finally out of Wall, away from the fawning boys and her expectant father and the leering middle-aged Mr. Monday who her mother approved of because he was one of the wealthier men in the village.

Then she crested a rise and gasped as the coloured lights of a town she knew was not on any map of England twinkled beckoningly.

The inhabitants of the market town ignored her as she gawped, rather unladylike, at a stall that advertised memories in crystal vials and another that held sabre-toothed cats the size of kittens, all with green eyes of shining emerald. She smiled at one, which pounced on a ribbon she had just this morning sewn on to add colour to an everyday skirt.

“Dirk-toothed cat, young miss,” the seedy looking man seated beside a few opened cages smiled ingratiatingly. “Make good pets, they do.”

She shook her head and backed away, only to bump into someone. “Oh sorry,” the apology automatically left her lips. The woman quickly turned and swiped a jar in front of her face, capping it with a startling clang.

When Victoria raised a brow at her, she merely smiled creepily and offered her a coin. “For your trouble,” the woman said in a whispery kind of voice. Victoria didn’t have the slyest man in the village as a father for nothing.

“I’d rather…rather know what I’m really being paid for, if you please.”

The woman cocked her head to the side and light caught cracked and chipped teeth of indescribable colour. Victoria took a step back in disgust. Then the woman tapped her chin thoughtfully, then nodded. “A breath wasted on apology for this coin, young lady.”

Victoria shivered involuntarily as the voice took on a subtly different tone at the word ‘young’. She was about to agree, simply to get away, when Tristran’s earnest voice intruded on her thoughts _“…that’s the beauty of it. I can always get more.”_

She hesitated. Why was she even thinking of what he said? Hmph, fine. It was money, but then, she knew nothing of Faerie money. What do all the stories say? Can’t fairy tales be a little more useful? She huffed in annoyance, trying to remember the soft voice of her mother reading them when she was a wee bairn. “I would take a change of clothes and the truthful answers to eleven questions instead.”

The woman smiled considering, studying Victoria, and inclined her head. “Very well. Follow.” She weaved through the crowded alleyways to a door tucked between a painted yellow cart and a fruit stall. Victoria peered into the dark crannies of the house, which it seemed to have a lot of for such a small domicile. And there seemed to be a very faint music coming from the walls. She leaned closer, straining to hear the melody, when a squeaking sounded and she jumped back. Rats! She stumbled faster after the woman, who looked back in askance at her haste.

“Y – you have rats!” She hated rats.

“Ye-he-he-hes.” It was a moment before Victoria understood the woman was laughing in her agreement. “Quite the helpful little things.”

Not exactly what she was thinking, but she said nothing more. The woman had halted before a door and was fishing her numerous skirts for a key. The door opened into a small sitting room that also held a bed in one corner, behind a screen printed with white birds having long necks and red-tipped wings. The woman waved her into a chair. “Sit, sit and ask your questions.”

Victoria sat. “Will you tell me about this town?”

The woman smirked at her and said. “Yes.”

The younger woman blinked. “I meant in detail.”

“Not part of the agreement now was it.” The woman said a trifle smugly. Victoria wanted suddenly to stomp her foot, recognizing that ten questions would not gain her that much information on the world. Fortunately, her father was a man who put a price to everything and she understood a little of how the world worked – in that sense at least.

In that world, if you were so inclined to stomp your foot, bring it down in such a manner that it lands on another’s toes while yet compelling him to make reparation to you for his unmannered feet being in the way of your heel.

But where to start? She can’t turn back now. She looked at the woman. “What manner of being are you?”

“A witch, one who practices the arts of the Sisterhood.”

She almost flinched. Witches in stories were not the most beneficial of beings. But the woman looked harmless, if a little odd. And she was curious. “Can anyone be a witch?”

“Anyone who possesses the right disposition.” It seemed the witch took pity on her, for she could have answered no. She was less like her father than many thought, and for once, she wished she could have him with her. She shook the thought away. No, she was better off without him and she was never going back.

“You wish to be a witch?”

Victoria’s head snapped up at that. “ _No._ ” For some reason, an inner voice cried out in protest at the thought of being like the woman before her.

The woman hissed her laughter. “Pity. I could have used you.” Her eyes, as green as that of the cat Victoria was enamoured of earlier, glowed a little in the dim light. “You seem to be at a crossroads. A nudge in the proper direction would take some of the burden off, yes?”

“By all means, make your nudge.”

The witch stepped closer to the table, and Victoria saw the bundle in her hands. “Saw you the star that fell a mere hour before?” At the wary nod, she hissed intensely, “I wish it.”

The look of surprise that crossed the young face had the witch nodding in satisfaction. She just learned more of the young woman, the girl, before her than a dozen questions would have. “A star offers immortality to one who knows what to look for.” She saw the frown. “Do you not want to live forever?”

Victoria was shocked. Immortality was impossible. Yet this woman, this witch, was talking about it so easily and all she needed was a star. She shook her head. She came here wanting a better life, one life, not an eternity.

She only realized she had voiced the words when a cruel laugh that was very far from a cackle echoed off the wooden walls. “You are wiser than you think.” Fool, the witch thought to herself. Foolishly ignorant, but otherwise she was perfect. She needed someone who would not use the star herself.

“I do not see what good chasing a star is to me.” Brag to Tristran that she got it first, maybe.

The witch smiled. “I will grant you a wish. Your fondest desire. Do you want a prince to sweep you off your feet? A chest of gold and jewels? The downfall of your greatest enemy?”

“Why don’t you go get it yourself, if you could do all that?”

“That is a question wasted.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“For reasons you do not need to know, I cannot leave this town. Yet.” She nodded at the bundle she had set on the table. “Clothes, as promised.”

Victoria sputtered. “Th-these are men’s clothes!”

The woman laughed. “What makes you think I could spare a skirt in a place like this?”

A place like this? Victoria sucked in a breath. Of course, she had heard stories, the dark corners…she looked around the room, reanalyzing with the new knowledge of where she was: a flophouse. She stared at the breeches in disgust.

“Don’t worry your pretty head. Those are clean togs. Almost never been worn, those. No lice and everything.” The witch smirked. “I will tell you that no human lady has yet travelled the Stormhold roads alone and emerged unscathed.”

After a brief shudder of revulsion, Victoria grabbed the clothes and stepped behind the screen. A thought came to her. “What uses could a witch put a breath wasted on apology to?”

“A revenge brew, for one. A most lucrative concoction. Quite popular among the nobility, more now that the King is to be known as dead before too long.”

The king’s death, so recent, had not yet reached the ears of the people of Stormhold, else there would be concealed celebrations of massive proportions across the land. It has been the tradition of the magical land of Stormhold that a cruel king would be replaced by another. But people generally don’t think that way; the death of one king is reason enough to throw a party. Discreetly of course. Every royal death means a revival of the hope, however battered, for a benevolent king.

“Will it harm me in any way?”

“Does the use of a feather quill hurt the bird from which the feather has been plucked?”

Victoria stuck her head out from behind the screen and glared at the woman. She had no doubt that, had the witch wanted a quill, she would have wrung the poor fowl’s neck. The motion caused her to slip on the trouser legs. “Oof!” By all lords in heaven, how do men stand the things? She pulled the trousers up and buttoned them, surprised that they fit so well, if a bit long. They must have been owned by a rather thin young man. The billowy shirt disguised her chest, though she mourned at the loss of her corset. They pushed her breasts up to unwanted prominence, if she was to be a boy. She sighed and used a scrap of fabric to lightly bind them, feeling more comfortable with the support.

“How much coin for this dress? And the boots.” She would have loved to keep the boots – they were almost new and quite beautifully made. But they had heels too high for the trousers.

“Six copper pennies and a farthing.” The witch decided after a pause. “I’ll even give you the pair of sturdy boots by the door.” It was a worthy trade for a bundle of used clothing, and while her boots did cost a bit more, replacing them at a shop could be expensive and lead to one too many questions. She viewed the replacements. Sturdy indeed. They looked old enough to be her grandfather’s. She shook them out, jumping when a large spider crawled out and raised its hairy pincers menacingly at her. She shuddered a little, batted it away with the boot it scuttled out of and proceeded to thoroughly inspect the offered footwear for other surprises.

“Now aren’t you the dashing lad.” The woman neared as she finished tucking her trouser-legs into the somewhat large boots. She held a hat in her hands, and was studying Victoria’s head a little too intently. “I would give you a silver shilling for your hair.”

That was something Victoria understood. Magic, as it was in the stories, was of hair, blood, and bone. “No, thank you.”

She liked her hair, despite her mother’s claims that it was the least part of her. She didn’t inherit her mother’s golden silk or her father’s brunette locks – hers was something of a muddle of both their colors, tumbling halfway to her knees. She was loath to cut it, certainly not to pass as a mere boy.

“I assume you have some way of finding the star.” She was careful not to phrase it as a question, though it really should not count, seeing as it was for something the witch wanted her for.

The witch showed her teeth. “For the lightest shades of your hair, I would give you the means.”

“The colour of my….hair”

“Nay. Not the _colour_. I want the lightest shadows of your hair. At most you would be left with locks a shade or two darker than what you have now.”

“Alright,” she agreed. What harm would taking away a shade of her muddy blonde locks cause, after all?

At that the witch thrust a silver comb through her hair and pulled it through before Victoria could protest. She looked quickly at the mirror, marveling as her dark blonde turned into a somewhat dusky brown. It made her look different. She pulled a lock in front of her eyes, frowning. But it was worth it when the witch gave her a pouch containing four pieces of old carved bone inscribed with strange figures, and told her what they could do. It was won off a drunk diviner, the witch said, and quite rare.

“How do you use it?” Victoria asked, wary of the dwindling number of free questions she had left.

“Is that direction north?” the witch pointed. When the younger did nothing she rolled her eyes. “Well, come on now, toss ‘em up!”

The bones fell cleanly into Victoria’s palm. The witch nodded, pleased. Half the work done, there – the magic responded better to touch than if you tossed them into a bowl or other receptacle. The trick was getting all the pieces to not scatter on the toss.

“What that does mean?”

The witch glanced at the girl’s hand, then looked even more pleased. The girl, Victoria – a suitably providential name, she mused – looked even more wary. That was good; the girl did have the talent. “That means ‘no’. Now, am I fond of roast fowl?”

An odd look, a toss, then, “That means ‘yes’, I suppose.”

“Indeed. Now get to sleep, girl. You can use the bed. You’ll have quite a long walk tomorrow.”

“Why me?” Victoria was not feeling tired at all.

“That’s the last on another useless inquiry.”

“They’re my questions, even then.”

“Hm.” The witch’s eyes pierced her, and for one second, she looked exactly how Victoria pictured the witch-queens of her childhood stories. “You have an aura about you.”

“I’d think everyone does.” Her voice swung up the register on the last syllable. Oh, most certainly that was not a squeak. Her mother would flay her alive quite joyfully if her diction was not on par with the Queen’s. Though she doubted the Queen ever breathed the air of the village. The thought of her soul being read so easily, and by those like the woman before her, had her inwardly flinching.

“Yes, hmmmh.” The old woman squinted in concentration. Victoria leaned unconsciously leaned closer. “It fairly screams ‘untried, provincial, mooncalf-eyed wanderer here with no prospects whatsoever; please, please take advantage of me’.”

Victoria simply glared.

“Did I not get it right? I rather thought it was quite accurate.” The witch ignored the indignant silence. “What does it matter? I wanted a pair of hard-working hands and quick feet. You would do as well as the next.” She patted the hat she’d dropped on the table. “Take this– it would fit you quite well, I think.”

Victoria turned the hat over in her hands. On the underside was the name: J. Victor.

When the witch came knocking the next morning, the room was empty and the hat still on the table. Willful child. She smiled, a rather cruel grimace even more menacing the way the sunlight slashed across her craggy face. It was only the latest manipulation in the many years of plotting her revenge, but she had a feeling the girl would go further than any one of her other tools had yet. And she would be all the closer to grinding into the ground the three that called themselves witch-queens. She thrust the hat into a trunk with others like it. Stupid girl, what did she think to use in keeping the rain and sun from that overly pampered skin?

@0@0@0@

Victoria tilted the parasol backward and smiled at the gaping fool who blinked disbelievingly from his bull-cart. She sniffed haughtily, once past them. At least his bull had the manners not to stare. She was, of course, well aware she could not be mistaken for anything but female. She had the trousers and the boots, but the hair and the mannerisms? They were a dead giveaway. It seemed even in magical lands they put stock by propriety.

Perhaps it was not a good idea to be a single travelling female after all? She bowed her head. The batty old witch could have been lying about the danger. No. The weird clothing would surely put them off. After all, not a few people had gone to the trouble of moving out of her way as she walked down the town streets. Have they never seen a young lad hold a parasol before? Victoria had. Of course, all of those had been holding the adorably frilly things over _her_ head, but still…

But still, she’d never left the house without a parasol. And it was high noon. She stopped. Oh, damn she’d left her best one with the old man guarding the wall. She sighed. Tristran had a lot to answer for. It was her favourite one too.

“M-milady?”

She felt a timid tug on her shirt-tails. She looked down and the urchin quickly let go.

“Please help me mam, please, lady. Me pa’s still not come and she’s been days abed, please!” The boy, the very tiny boy, hardly more than four years of age, started babbling before Victoria could open her mouth.

What was the boy talking about? Help his mother? The pleadings had turned incoherent with sobs, the boy’s fists clenched tightly at his sides. She sighed and knelt. “Is your mother sick, boy?”

A wailing nod. She winced at the assault on her ears. “Why not take her to the sawbones?”

“Ain’t no sawbones can cure what she’s got,” muttered a voice. The boy wailed louder. Victoria put a hand over his mouth.

“Shush.” Her stern tone cut a wail in half. She wondered, briefly, what the witch would have done with the other half. At least the boy was now sniffling instead of wailing. Victoria glared at the owner of the voice. He melted into the shadow of a building.

“Oi! Whatchoo doing to the boy there, eh?” A gruff voice sounded out. Victoria sighed. This was why she didn’t like children. They attracted trouble like rats to rotten cheese.

She straightened up. The speaker was an old man with grisly salt-and-pepper whiskers that seemed to have been trimmed with an axe, there were patches of near-bald spots on his face. He was glaring at her balefully. “I beg your pardon?”

“Caleb, get ‘way from tha’ witch!”

Oh dear. Was it the clothes? Instinctively, she scanned the street. It was deserted. Thank goodness. It would not do for gossip to…she paused, and laughed inwardly. Did she have any reputation in this land to protect?

“No!” Both adults looked at the boy in surprise. He was looking defiantly at the man. “She’ll heal mam. I’ll do anything!”

“Caleb!” The man turned on her. “Get you gone, witch! There be nothing ‘ere fer you.”

“No! No!” For all his fear of the ‘witch’ the boy clung to her leg and wouldn’t let go. Those were clean trousers! She put her hand on his head.

“What is your mother sick of?”

The Whiskers man spat. “She be cursed, witch. By one of yer sort.”

“Oh. And why do you keep calling me a witch anyway?” She gave the boy a surreptitious propelling away from her leg. He grabbed onto her hand instead. She narrowed eyes at him, or more accurately, at his dripping nose. “It’s not like I eat little boys for breakfast.”

He smiled tearfully at her. Oh, for God’s sake. Idiot child. Get a hint. At least the family wagon that had brought her to this town had children still sleeping. Good luck that, coming across the travellers when she was sneaking out of that flophouse an hour before sunrise. They glanced at her oddly, but they weren’t rude about it. Like the person in front of her right now. The man was looking at her incredulously. “Of course yer a witch,” he scoffed.

Of course. She rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m not. And I can’t help her. I’ve got somewhere to be.” She waved a hand in the general direction the runes had pointed her in. The witch had said nothing about haste, but Victoria had a feeling the quicker she found the star, the better. She wanted a shot at her heart’s desire after all. Gold, definitely. Maybe a manor house or two. Maybe even a titled lord for a husband. One that'll leave her to her devices. She’d get out of Wall and never return.

The boy was tearing up again. She looked away. Whiskers was glaring at him, then her. Well, don’t take your anger issues out on me, she thought. She shook the boy’s hand free. “I’m sure your mother will be fine. My mother always brought me soup when I was sick. And said to eat well or drink lots of water.”

What was she saying? She knew nothing of medicine. She turned toward the gates once more. She was half-a-dozen paces away when the man called out gruffly. “Wait.”

He strode to her, the boy trailing hopefully behind. “I’ll pay it.”

“What?” This was getting ridiculous.

“The price. Fer his mother’s health. I’ll pay it.”

“Look, I’m really in a hurry and – “

“She’s dying. Please, lady.”

Dying? She stared at the boy. Her heart sank. And here she was blathering about soup. She looked at the man. “I can’t help her.”

“Can’t you just look once?”

Well, that was a complete reversal from – oh. Oh. Did the boy not say his father had not returned home yet? The look in the man’s eyes was the same as her father’s when he looked at her mother. He’d been a fair man. Until her mother died and bitterness took him. There was a tug on her sleeve. She looked down into the wide eyes of the boy. “Please, help.”

“I – I don’t…very well. I’ll look. But I can’t promise anything.” What was she doing? Gods above.

@0@0@0@

Victoria stared, trying to keep the horrified look from her face. The woman on the bed was thin, too thin, and she lay there in what she instinctively knew was a sleep as unnatural as feathers on a pig. “How long has she been like this?”

“Eight days, milady.” The girl, approaching adolescence, stared at her anxiously, her tiny brother’s hand clasped tightly in her own.

“Tried ev’rything, we did.” The whiskered man offered. “Forced water down her throat for days.”

She tried to sort through everything that the stories said about witches. Stories her mother had wove at night when she was young, stories passed down from her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother before that. “Did something unusual happen? Did she meet someone new?”

The three shook their heads. “What did she do eight days ago?”

“Went to buy the bread, like she always does.” The girl furrowed her brow in thought. Apparently nobody had told her that caused wrinkles when it was done too often. “Did the cleaning and the garden. Mrs. Porter stopped by and said she had a bit of sewing she wanted done.” Her face fell. “She gave that to Mrs. Weffel the other day.”

“How about the day before? Anything unusual?” The children’s faces lit up.

“Pa came home!” the boy Caleb cried. “He brought me new clothes, an’ Ellie a new doll, an’ Mam some meat. It was sweet, an’ soft an’ Ellie said it came from a pig! That’s not true, is it? Pigs stink!”

“And he hasn’t been here for eight days?”

There was derisive sneer from Whiskers, but it disappeared quickly when Ellie turned to him. “Pa always goes away on business. Darry sent him my letter. He’ll be here soon, right Darry?”

“Of course, little Ellie. But he migh’ be delayed on th’road.”

She looked at him sharply, and he glared at her. Great. ‘Pa’ wasn’t married to the woman. Her eyebrows jumped up. Of course! “Did he give her anything other than food?”

Whisker’s eyes tightened in suspicion, then as she met his gaze steadily, widened in comprehension, then anger. He started toward the little dressing table near the window and began riffling through it. “Ellie, Caleb, come help me find yer Pa’s gift to yer mother, eh? Must be beautiful t’look at.”

Caleb smiled and began to chatter at Whiskers. “It is? Can I see? Can I?”

Victoria started to look around as well, though she didn’t know what she was looking for. Then she noticed the little girl staring at her.

“You’re wrong.”

Oh, dear Lord. What now? She lifted a brow, but said nothing. The fact that the girl knew what they were talking about increased the possibility of Victoria being right. She used to hear all the best gossip about Betty Julens from that profligate lady’s seven-year-old sister. And men who kept mistresses were bastards. She knew because Mr. Geilhart’s house, for all its isolation, was framed in all its glory by her own bedroom window. The view of the kitchen entrance was particularly clear. And didn’t he beat his housekeeper every now and then? Everybody knew about that.

“Pa loves us! He wouldn’t!” The girl was tearing up. “You’re just lying! You’re a witch, you’re prob’ly after him or something.”

“Okay. One, I’m not a witch. Two, your bother and Axed Whiskers over there dragged me here. Three, why would you think your pa doesn’t love you?”

“I don’t! Pa loves me. He loves Mam! He wouldn’t hurt her.” She was crying freely now. “He wouldn’t…it was a mistake…they always make up. They do.” She stared up pleadingly at the frozen Victoria. Mr. Whiskers had straightened up slowly from where he squatted before a chest of clothing.

Victoria cleared her throat, a bit nervously. “Caleb, can you show me where your kitchens are? We’ll make some thin soup for your mother.”

“But the gift? I wanta see it.”

“We’ll let your sister and Whiskers – Darry, I mean – find it, shall we? I’ll give you something delicious.” He hopped down readily from his perch on the bed and followed her out the door and to the kitchens, where she hoped she’d find something to keep the boy occupied. She sighed in relief as she found some apples and cut them up.

The soup was steaming gently when the other two people came down. She quickly laid out the plates and some bread. Whiskers gave her an odd look.

“I’m sorry,” she said, a little embarrassed. It was rude, after all, to commandeer the kitchen of a woman she’d never met before. He shrugged. It was the middle of the afternoon, but Caleb _was_ looking eagerly at the pot.

Whiskers ladled some onto all their plates and they started eating in silence. “We found it.” The man eventually said. Ellie hung her head lower, then looked at her uncertainly.

“I’m sorry.”

Victoria waved it away. “Can I see?”

Whiskers dug into his pocket and held out a jeweled comb. Victoria took a breath. “Exquisite.” It was a word her mother once used to describe the design on a passing nobleman’s coat hem. Not that noblemen came through Wall all the time. That was seven years ago, and nary a hint of another one since then.

Whiskers glared at her and lifted it out of the way as Caleb, entranced by the gleam of what looked like rubies on the comb, reached out stubby fingers for it. Ellie was looking at it with mingled fascination and disgust. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What do we do with it, woman?” came singularly crabby tones.

She glared. Really, and you wonder why the woman upstairs hasn’t grabbed you up for herself? She put her spoon down. What did they do with it? The stories all killed the witch before the evil enchantment was broken. Whiskers sighed, stood up and ladled soup into an empty bowl. “Go take this to yer Mam. Y’know what t’do.”

Ellie nodded and took the bowl carefully. “Come on, Caleb.”

When the children were gone, Whiskers looked at her. “Y’know how t’kill a witch?”

“Oh, I’m not a witch now, am I?” she grumbled. “I didn’t even know there were witches until yesterday.” That earned her an appraising look from the man. She ignored it and slumped down.

“Maybe best you be, walking ‘cross Stormhold alone.”

“Make up your mind.” Really, what went through men’s heads? A witch, not a witch, and now best to be a witch? She squinted at him. Perhaps his brains had leached out into his whiskers. She took another close look at the comb. “You could burn it.”

“Looks t’have cost a pretty penny,” he countered, wistfully. Even if the stones were faked, it would probably cost enough to feed the family well for weeks.

“I don’t think you have enough hair to do it justice.”

He snorted. “We’ve a priest. He migh’ know what t’do.”

One fire fed by holy water later, one burnt-to-a-crisp comb, and one dash back to the little house, the woman’s cheeks were filling with natural colour once more.

“Where you headed?”

Whiskers was a bit more talkative now that she was leaving and his lady love about to wake. Maybe the fact that she refused to be paid too; in fact it was probably that. Victoria pointed. “That way.” It took her nearly an hour of pointing and asking “Is the star that way?” to get that particular direction.

He nodded. “Th’royal palace is that way.” He looked at her. “You sure you ain’t staying the night?”

Wasn’t the witch saying something about a dead king? Probably not a good time to visit. She shook her head in answer to the man’s question. She’d already delayed too long. But the man was talking some more.

“…you get t’Brum Town there’s a lot of trading there. Half day’s walk from here. Course, y’get a ride from m’friend ‘ere and y’get free room ‘nd board to Storm’old Keep.” She grew alarmed as a note of menace seemed to grow more pronounced as he talked.

She was a woman of no discernible means of defence. Of course she ran. Fat lot of good it did, her long hair was grabbed by one of her pursuers. She screamed.

“Yell all y’want, lovey. Ain’t no one gonna take a second look. A witch, to boot. They pay near a hun’red florins fer a witch down a’ th’coast.”

“What?” Victoria had heard of trade in human beings, of course. Her father’s friends had spoken about it once when she was a child. Her mother had been properly horrified and had for a time chided her only daughter with the words ‘...or the slavers will come and get you’.

Children’s tales they were, and for a second a monster from under her childhood bed reared its fanged head at her. She gasped and her knees suddenly felt like they were made of day old bean curd. It was the first time she felt fear that was almost debilitating. “You...you bastard! Is this how you repay people who helped you?”

Whiskers looked away in shame for a moment, then at a suspicious glance from the other he snorted derisively. “Fer all I know, you were the witch who gave the poncy son of a lily-livered bastard th’comb. Nothing good come of dealing wi’ a witch.”

“Let me go! You ungrateful, misbegotten - !” A dirty hand cut off her cursing. She nearly hurled the remains of that innocent soup. She saw the ingrate nod to the man holding her arms in check before something hard connected with the side of her head.

@0@0@0@

For all the longing she felt when she watched the mortal realm, Yvaine could not help but feel horrified once she herself had fallen. An excited horror, certainly, but horror just the same. She had not expected to feel pain, and when the young man had bound her with magic silver all the terrifying stories she had ever heard about men and their treatment of fallen Stars came to mind.

She had never expected to fall, not for many millennia, and the delicacy of her position was tantamount in her mind.

The moment Tristran Thorn had burst into the inn yelling a frantic warning to the first prince of Stormhold, she suspected that he was one of those mortals for whom Destiny had woven a specific web. She knew it for sure when he told her of his mortal origins. He was not even from Faerie! And yet he had run straight into death and adventure the second he stepped foot in this realm. She had centuries and centuries of watching the worldly spheres and could recognize the signs; he fair reeked of Fate.

It was fascinating.

She had been on the deck when the Captain of what was most certainly a brigand ship was interrogating Tristran. They had been separated and she had two burly hands clasped around her arms. She could hear shouting but not the words, and when the eavesdropping men had rushed toward the ship side she was dragged along. A crash and glass flew outward. A body dropped. She let out a scream, before anger took her over. Her first mortal friends – the unicorn and now Tristran – why? The human realm was ache and pain.

“You brutes! You killed him, you bastards!”

The man holding her had been surprised. An elbow sank into soft flesh and she yanked her arms free. Without further ceremony, her feet took her closer to the edge. She heard yells but took no notice as she propelled herself off the ship.

“Yvaine!”

That was odd. She looked back and gaped at Tristran’s horrified face, safe behind unbroken glass. A ruse. Of course it was. She looked at the expanse of water under her and started to hyperventilate. Stupid, she berated herself mid-air. _Brainless._

The Captain was holding Tristran back from jumping in after her. She looked away and was met with nearing water. She looked back again; the ship was rapidly becoming smaller. There was nothing else to do really. She closed her eyes.

Bugger. This was going to hurt.

A deep breath later and she plunged into the violent briny cold of an October sea. Upon breaking the surface, gasping, she latched on to the only available flotation device there was. One look at it and she once more wondered how in eternity she ever thought the mortal world was a good place to take a vacation in. They were all mad. Where in the world did a pirate get a mannequin from? And for that matter, _why_?!

She gingerly turned the carved face away so she wouldn’t keep seeing it, and started paddling. With her luck, the thing would become waterlogged and sink before she reached shore. It didn’t. As they struck sand, with her shivering violently with the chill seeping into her bones, she almost wished she had the mannequin’s unfeeling body. The thing’s head flopped to stare expressionlessly at her.

“Th-th-this is a n-night-m-m-mare.”

She only just got the words out when a sharp pain on the side of her head rendered her unconscious.

@0@0@0@

Victoria peered out of the numerous holes dotting the dingy room where the bastard Whiskers’ friend had thrown her. On one holey wall, was an empty room, just as miserable as the one she was in. The windows were boarded up with rotting wood. Outside, there was nothing but darkness beyond the dying torch on a pole in the middle of the street.

And what was _that_ about? Some sort of signal to the other savages? She shuddered. She had no intention of playing the damsel in distress waiting for her shining knight. She was better than that.

 _It’s that kind of thinking that’s got you into this kind of trouble_ , a voice whispered in her head. She shut it down ruthlessly. That might well be, she thought back grimly, but it’s exactly the kind of thinking needed to get out of here unscathed.

She pulled at her bonds, again futilely. The rope wrapped around her wrists and attached to a thick pole with enough slack to get to all four corners of the room. She wondered about that. Did they mean to torture her with just enough rope to engender some hope of escape?

Voices outside caught her ear, booted steps coming closer. She stopped sawing her ropes on the rusted iron of a tool she found on the floor and flew to check on the approaching men. Good God, what is the use of a hole-filled wall if it can’t even show what she wanted to see?!

Laughter sounded, quite close.

Were they coming to where she was? She heard a door open nearby, too near, and frantically looked around for cover. Seeing none, she crumpled on to the floor in a simulated faint.

“Put ‘er in wi’ th’other un.”

“The witch?”

“Darry said she ain’t a witch. What’s he know? This un looks to be a toff’s daughter, yeah? Could ransom ‘er in Storm’old.”

“Can’t have them conspiring.”

“Then put ‘er in th’other room, Bert!” said the other exasperatedly. “Conspirin’! They’re women; ain’t got nary a thought in their heads.”

Victoria’s brow twitched. The grunting imbecile was going to pay for that. She opened an eye when the door to the other room creaked in protest of its own moving. The two men were carrying a slight figure in.

Another woman. The one carrying her dumped her on the ground unceremoniously. Another mark against him, she knew immediately he was the grunter. The other made a sound of protest.

“Easy there, Watts.”

Victoria watched as he crouched beside the unconscious woman and examining her head for bumps. At least one of the bastards had some humanity. Then the fingers threaded through long blonde locks and catching one apart, brought the strands to his nose.

At that, Victoria crushed all feeling of approbation she might have felt for the inhabitants of this godforsaken village.

She needed to get out of here.

The grunting ape snorted at his friend’s actions. “Lay off th’ merchandise, yeah? They’re only worth ‘alf th’ price if y’touch ‘em.”

“You’re not a man, Watts, if you can’t appreciate this unmatched beauty.”

“Unmatched, eh? Weren’t tha’ what y’said ‘bout th’other un?” He turned away. “And I find tha’ gold lasts longer than any woman.”

The other man chuckled, hair falling from his fingers. He stood to follow the other. “I did not expect to find a philosopher here.”

The grunter grumbled something Victoria did not hear, she was still feeling that roiling disgust at the realization that that man may have touched her own hair the same way.

Bastards.

Well. She sat up again. They will not see this thoughtless woman again. She went back to pushing her restraints against the dull edge of the found tool. A strand gave and sudden feeling flooded her fingers. She gasped in pain, blinking away tears before bringing now trembling hands back to the blade.

@0@0@0@

The Caspartine was using the evening fog to creep up the coast toward the small settlement. They grumbled at being forced to rescue a woman, even if it were Captain Shakespeare’s nephew’s woman. They were pirates! Fearsome blackguards of the skies and waterways! This sounded suspiciously a rescue more befitting a knight.

The helmsman grunted. “As far as we’re go’n get.”

“What?” protested a deckhand, looking up from polishing a blade. “We’re barely two miles from the town. They can’t see us with the fog anyway.”

“Shush, fool,” the mate barked quietly. “We go on foot.”

Tristran exhaled deeply as the others quietly slung themselves off the side of the ship and into the boats. He patted his side to make his new sword was secure and followed them.

@0@0@0@

Victoria quickly moved to the woman, pulling strings of rope from her wrists and grimacing at the thin bloody cuts that marred her formerly perfect skin.

The blonde was wet from head to toe, the smell of saltwater on her silver dress. Did the men chance across some survivor of a shipwreck, perhaps? As if her opinion of them could sink no lower.

“Hello? Wake up.” She gently patted the woman's cheeks, to no avail. “Oh great. Don't tell me I have to carry you out of here. You certainly do not look light.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

Victoria jerked at the sound of the tinkling voice, taken aback at eyes that opened to show the deep color of the midnight skies.

The woman was beautiful.

“I did not say that.”

The woman noticed the rope around her wrists and groaned as she used her elbows to lift her torso off the ground. “I'm tied up again. Of course I'm tied up again. Your mortal world is horrible.”

“Are you fae then?” Victoria reached for the ropes holding the other, lifting the bound hands for inspection. “Can't you get out of these binds yourself?”

“The compassionate person would offer me use of a knife.”

“The compassionate person would've shut themselves up in a cloister to pray for the souls of their brethren in this horrible mortal world, not get up to things that would have other people sell them into slavery or some similar terrible fate.”

The blonde stiffened in alarm. “Sold?”

Victoria nearly snorted as she studied the sloppy knots of the blonde's ropes. Well, there was something to be said for being thought to have 'nary a thought in their heads'. “What, you think they tied you up for the aesthetics of it? I'm sorry to tell you that jute-rope does not become your complexion, fae.”

“My name is Yvaine.”

“Victoria.” A twist and the woman was free. She was irritated. Why were her ropes not so easy to get out of?

The woman, Yvaine, did a double-take at her. Then scoffed before breaking into laughter muffled between fingers. “What a thing to meet you here, Victoria.”

The odd note on her name did not escape Victoria's notice. But despite herself, the slightly hysterical laughter coaxed out a reluctant smile from her. She held out a hand. “I would have met you over a tea-table and a plate of warm scones but as that now seems impossible, perhaps we can get working on an escape?”

“Yes,” Yvaine's fingers were cold in her hand and there was a strange but genuine amusement in her expression. Still, her deep dark eyes were warm and inviting. “Yes, we can.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written some years back and never got past the first chapter. Victoria was to end up a witch, possibly take over the three witchqueens' territories. Tristran was still to become king of Stormhold and they would both royally bicker over the smallest things. Yvaine would half-heartedly referee until the bickering devolved into who she liked most between the two of them. Yvaine would definitely coax Victoria into being less of a bitch than her predecessors. They all become adorable Badasses.


End file.
